


Touch Me

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AO3 Fundraiser Auction, Case Fic, John is long suffering, M/M, Possessive!John, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock is bored, Smut, really just a pwp with a bit of plot thrown in, what I'm best at really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don't like it when people touch me," said Sherlock, like it was oh so obvious - and John was beginning to worry that maybe it was. "Did you think I hadn't noticed? Ever since I returned, you've gone out of your way to make sure that no one touches me unless they absolutely have to. I have to admit at first I wasn't certain as to why, especially since you seemed to have no issues with touching me yourself. Frankly, you manufacture reasons to touch me. And I like it, so we should fuck." He dropped his voice a shade, eyelashes lowering so that he was somehow looking at John through a fringe of curls even though he was taller.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrisKenshin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisKenshin/gifts).



> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> This is for the second place bidder from the AO3 Auctions, which was worth a fic of at least 3k words. She wanted possessive!John who tries to keep everyone else from touching Sherlock after he returns, eventually culminating in hot sex. Hope you like it, hun.

Sherlock Holmes was never more excited than when his mobile would ring a familiar beep. He could be anywhere in the flat and he would come running at that sound, though of course he often tried to pretend that he was not actually as interested as he was. Not that John could really blame him: even though Sherlock's credibility had been re-established after he'd returned thanks to the combined efforts of Mycroft and Lestrade, he still wasn't getting very many cases. In fact, only a handful of cases had come in through the website during the past three months. The rest of them had all been from Lestrade, and a fair amount were the sort of cases Sherlock would have scorned before.

So John was more than a little relieved to see the way Sherlock's face lit up when he seized his phone and glanced at the screen. Sherlock stayed where he was for a long few minutes without speaking, thumb twitching as he flipped through the photos and information that Lestrade was sending. It was a good sign that Sherlock hadn't thrown his phone aside with a disgusted huff in the first second or two, and while he was occupied John took the opportunity to hurry up the stairs and fetch his gun. He'd taken to bringing it along on all of their cases now, whereas before he usually only brought it when Sherlock had directed him to. He knew now that it never hurt to have an extra bit of good luck along. He tucked it securely into his waistband, where it would be hidden under the line of his jacket.

"John!" Sherlock called out, and from the impatient tone of his voice it was not the first time he had spoken. "John, come on, Lestrade's stumbled onto a serial killer." He sounded ridiculously excited, like a small child on Christmas morning, and John had to take care to wipe the indulgent smile off of his face before he went back down the stairs.

"What sort of serial killer?" he asked, ducking as a jacket was thrown in his direction. It landed on the floor about a foot to his left. John picked it up and shrugged it on.

"He's not sure, but he says they've got at least three bodies and there's the possibility for up to two more." With the said, Sherlock swept from the room without waiting to see if John was going to follow. John was right behind him, though, pounding down the stairs and out the door onto the pavement. It was early in the day, and the street was filled with people. He stepped up beside Sherlock, standing a fair bit closer to him than he normally would and forcing the crowd to flow around them. Sherlock took no notice as he threw a hand up for a cab. As though sensing the urgency, one stopped immediately and they both clambered in.

"Did he say exactly what's going on?" John pressed for more details once the cabbie had the address. 

In response, Sherlock tossed his phone into John's hands before pointedly turning away. That was his way of making it clear that he needed to think and would not appreciate an interruption. John shook his head and peered down at the phone. The pictures were gruesome: clear snapshots of old, decomposing bodies that - by his best guess - were anywhere from a month to several years old, considering that there were also some bones with no attached organs. Lestrade's message was simple, stating that a couple of joggers had stumbled on to what he figured was a dump site and that Scotland Yard had agreed to Sherlock's help before the killer chose his next victim. Exactly the sort of thing Sherlock loved.

The rest of the cab ride was done in silence, though it was not an uncomfortable one. As soon as the cab stopped, Sherlock leapt out and charged off. John was ready with a handful of pounds that he thrust into the cabbie's waiting hands. He jumped out after Sherlock and caught up just as Lestrade strode over to them. As the man went to clap Sherlock on the shoulder in welcome, John stumbled on a rock and jostled Sherlock to the side. Lestrade's friendly thump missed, striking uselessly at the air instead. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Lestrade just looked amused as John regained his footing and muttered an apology.

"Thanks for coming so quickly," he said, brushing it off. "The media's going to jump all over this one soon as they find out. From what we can tell, this guy's been going at it for years. The only reason we even found the site was because of the rain we had two days ago. It washed away enough of the soil to leave some bones visible, and a couple of joggers spotted them."

John looked around. "This is a pretty well travelled area. Dangerous. Anyone could've seen him."

"Some people enjoy the thrill," Lestrade said grimly. 

It gave John the chills to think that a killer could have been operating for years without anyone noticing, and that only a storm that had pounded London with several inches of rain over the course of four days had brought him to Scotland Yard's attention. "You're sure it's all one person?"

"That's what we're going with right now. Seems too much of a coincidence that more than one killer would've chosen the same spot, though it's a possibility. Can't rule anything out." At some point during their conversation, they had lost Sherlock. Lestrade turned then, knowing where the consulting detective would have gone. Sure enough, there was a tall figure in black leaning over the nearest body. One of the police officers standing nearby was giving him a disgusted look that Sherlock was ignoring.

"Well, at least he's not bored anymore," John muttered. He could only see Sherlock's back, but he knew Sherlock well enough to know when the man's mood had done a complete turn. It was only the fact that much of the soil had turned to mud and was loose, making footing unpredictable, that was keeping Sherlock from flitting from body to body.

Lestrade winced. "Has it been terrible?" he asked quietly.

"It's been alright," said John, knowing that Lestrade would think that he was just putting on a brave front. But the truth was, no matter how annoying Sherlock got John found that he didn't really mind. It was worth it, if only because John could still remember those empty months where he would have given anything to have Sherlock Holmes annoy him even a little bit. He never wanted to experience anything like that again. Sherlock might have been chafing under the boredom, but having the man in one place where John could watch over him certainly wasn't bothering John at all.

"John!" Sherlock called out before Lestrade had the chance to respond. "John, come here."

Nodding at Lestrade, John picked his way across the ground to Sherlock's side. He was crouching beside what appeared to be the newest body. It was only a handful of hours old now that John got a closer look at it, and the last of the rain had washed away most of the evidence that Scotland Yard would have depended on. "I don't know what I can tell you," John said after only a minute of examination. He knew it was not what Sherlock wanted to hear. "I think the cause of death is pretty obvious. She was strangled." His finger indicated the heavy bruising on the victim's throat.

"Yes." There was something in Sherlock's voice, a particular note that caught John's attentions. Sherlock had noticed an oddity. But what? John glanced back at the body, trying to see what Sherlock saw. 

"What is it?" he asked finally.

Instead of responding, Sherlock jumped to his feet and spun around. His shoes, unsuitable for the conditions, slipped in the mud and wet leaves. He would've got arse over head down the hill had John not flung an arm out and caught him around the waist. He pulled Sherlock in close automatically, sheltering him with his weight until Sherlock had regained his footing. There was a strange look on Sherlock's face as he rested a hand briefly on John's arm, and when he did not push away immediately John took it as permission to gently pull him along until they were standing back on the path. Only then did he let go of Sherlock, though he did not step away.

He said, "After spending months on sand that shifts with every step you take, you get used to it."

"Indeed," Sherlock said, and then he was walking towards Lestrade like nothing had happened. "I need to speak to the joggers that found the body."

"I figured you'd ask." Lestrade sighed and flipped his little black book closed. "Alright, just - try not to be yourself around them. These people are witnesses and they're pretty shook up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The joggers, Lestrade."

"Down there by the - Sherlock!" Heaving a frustrated sigh, Lestrade started after him. John caught up to him and they both followed. By the time they got to the bottom, Sherlock was already walking over to Donovan and the two joggers. Donovan saw him coming and her face darkened. She straightened up and threw a hand out. It brushed against Sherlock's chest before he stopped, and John picked up the pace.

"I need to speak to them, so get out of my way," Sherlock was hissing.

"These people are still living, freak, they're not a part of your -" Donovan paused, briefly, when she saw John, and her eyes darted to where her hand was still hanging in the air, to the too tiny space between her palm and Sherlock's coat. In a motion that was too casual, she pulled her hand back and continued, "weirdness and they don't want to be."

"Lestrade said I could talk to them!"

"I did," Lestrade said wearily. He looked like he couldn't remember why.

Donovan looked frustrated, but faced with a direct order she had no choice but to let Sherlock pass. He swept by her and walked right up to the two joggers. Both were male, middle-aged. In their late forties, John judged. They were dressed in trainers and jogging outfits, with thin jackets overtop to help deal with the rain. Sherlock didn't say a word to either one of them at first, but folded his hands beneath his chin and started looking them over. One of the joggers, the one with short cropped blond hair, shifted nervously under the perusal but remained silent for nearly a good two minutes before he couldn't take it anymore.

"We've already told our story to the police," he said finally.

"I'm not the police," Sherlock said immediately, eyes narrowing slightly. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and -"

The start of what might have been Sherlock's introduction to the theory of consulting detectives, or possibly some great long deduction that would leave everyone reeling in amazement, was cut off when the face of the other jogger changed. His eyes went wide and he reached for the pocket of his jacket, and John felt like it was all happening in slow motion: the man was pulling a gun out and reaching out for Sherlock's arm to shoot him, or take him as hostage, John didn't care. He reacted instinctively, pushing Sherlock aside and tackling the jogger to the ground.

"Do not fucking touch him!" he bellowed in the jogger's face, following it up with a solid punch. He briefly felt something cold and hard brushing along his ribs and grabbed for the gun, wrenching the jogger's hand viciously. The jogger gave a shout of pain and let go, and the gun fell to the ground. John kicked it away and pinned his hands against the mud before he looked up, barely breathing hard.

Lestrade had pinned the other jogger, the blond one, to the car. Donovan was standing over John with a pair of handcuffs. And right behind her was Sherlock, staring at John with that strange expression. John stared back, helpless to look away, until Donovan moved in between them while she was cuffing the jogger John had pinned down. Only then did he scramble to his feet, conscious of the mud that was now smeared into the knees of his jeans. He brushed at it uselessly.

"As you might have guessed," Sherlock said at last, gaze flicking idly over everything, "these joggers are not the innocent witnesses they have led you to believe that they were. Really, Lestrade, you might have noticed that the scene was not clearly visible from the path. To find it, they would have needed to be looking." He lifted his chin slightly, as though to further underscore the fact that _he_ had been the only one to look. "

"Yes," Lestrade said a bit helplessly, looking around at the scene. "That's - good work, Sherlock. And you too, John."

Sherlock preened under the praise, awkward though it was, and then spun on his heel. "Come on, John," he said for the third time that morning, and began striding back towards the street. John glanced at Lestrade, who sighed but nodded, before he followed. It wasn't all that difficult to catch up to Sherlock, and as soon as he was close enough Sherlock said in a tone of great disgust, "I hate trees."

"You hate trees?" John echoed, a little amused. He rubbed idly at his left cheek as he spoke, realizing that it ached. The jogger he'd taken down must have got in a lucky blow. It didn't feel like anything was broken, but he'd likely have a nice bruise by the time that morning came. He realized that Sherlock was staring at him and let his hand fall to his side. "I would say that they help with breathing, but then I know that you think breathing is boring. So yes, I can actually understand why you would say that." And honestly, that frightened him a little.

Mouth twitching, Sherlock threw a hand up to stop a cab. John got in beside him and the cabbie pulled away, headed for Baker Street. He didn't say as much, but he was a little concerned. The case hadn't been nearly as stimulating as he'd been hoping for. That was the problem: cases that stumped Scotland Yard were easily solved by Sherlock in a matter of minutes or hours, and that meant Sherlock would go right back to being bored out of his mind. Mrs Hudson was only going to tolerate so many bullet holes in the wall before she got fed up, and John couldn't blame her. He wondered what the chances were that Lestrade would have another case waiting by the time they got to the flat. He didn't think it was likely.

"Have you heard from Mycroft lately?" he ventured. 

Sherlock huffed and sank down in the seat. "I am not that desperate, John."

Not yet, John thought, eyeing Sherlock closely. But the flush of adrenaline from this case was probably already beginning to fade. He absently drew his tongue across his lower lip and tried to calculate how long it would take Sherlock to forgive him if John took the initiative in contacting Mycroft. Sherlock made a soft sound, and John glanced over at him. He was surprised to see that Sherlock was watching him with a distinctly _hungry_ look, as though John had magically been transformed into a plate of Angelo's best three cheese ravioli. John stared back at him, speechless. He'd never seen Sherlock look that way before, but there was something extremely appealing about it.

He wanted to ask what it was for, but it appeared that this look was also enough to drive all manner of thought from his mind. 

It was Sherlock who broke the stare, abruptly turning his head to look out the window. John was left looking at the back of his head and wondering what the hell that had been about. Once or twice he even opened his mouth to ask, but the words always failed him at the last moment. This was _Sherlock_. He'd been a little different ever since he'd returned home from tracking down Moriarty's web. It was a change that John would have been hard-pressed to identify or describe, but he knew it was there. Was this another one of those little differences? Should he bring it up, or was it best to pretend that the moment had never happened at all?

"Sherlock," he started.

The cab stopped. Sherlock leapt out like John had put a gun to his head.

"Hey," the cabbie said when John automatically made to follow. "Fare's not free, you know."

John felt like pounding his head against the glass. "Yeah, I know." He handed over the fee and got out, closing the door behind him. Sherlock had left the door to 221 open for him, and he climbed the stairs closely. He was expecting Sherlock to have gone up to their flat. He was not expecting to be ambushed up against the front door.

It came in the form of a hot, hungry kiss, and the only reason that Sherlock didn't get pushed away with an elbow to the stomach and a knee to the groin was that John recognized his scent and the heavy, rich material of his beloved coat. He gasped into the kiss, shocked and breathless, and Sherlock took that as an invitation: he parted John's lips with his tongue and delved inside, performing what felt like a rapid but thorough search, as though he was trying to form a personal map of John's mouth. John felt dizzy by the time Sherlock finally backed off, and he realized that at some point his hands had landed on Sherlock's shoulders and curled loosely into his coat: not pushing away, but not clutching him closer either.

"What," he said hoarsely, "the hell was that?"

"I think we should fuck," Sherlock said. 

John blinked. And then he blinked again. "You think we should - what? Why?"

"You don't like it when people touch me," said Sherlock, like it was oh so obvious - and John was beginning to worry that maybe it was. "Did you think I hadn't noticed? Ever since I returned, you've gone out of your way to make sure that no one touches me unless they absolutely have to. I have to admit at first I wasn't certain as to why, especially since you seemed to have no issues with touching me yourself. Frankly, you manufacture reasons to touch me. And I like it, so we should fuck." He dropped his voice a shade, eyelashes lowering so that he was somehow looking at John through a fringe of curls even though he was taller.

"I," John said, and then stopped because he felt like his brain was getting ready to melt out of his ears. On the one hand, he was mortified that Sherlock had caught on to his behaviour. He'd been hoping that, after all this time, he was a little more adept at keeping things from Sherlock Holmes than that. But on the other hand... He licked his lips, noting the way that Sherlock's gaze dropped to follow the movement of his tongue, and thought again about that moment in the cab. "And that's your solution. That we should have sex."

"Yes. Repeatedly and often." Sherlock's hands slid across his shoulders, down to his chest, and he daringly rubbed his thumbs against John's nipples. John swallowed at the flash of dark heat that leapt down his spine; his nipples have never been especially sensitive, but the fact that it was Sherlock doing the touching was more than enough to get his body going.

"Alright," he said hoarsely. There was a lot more to talk about here, but he just couldn't be arsed to do it. Not when he had a free invitation to do something he'd been thinking about for a long time. "Upstairs, then. I don't want to give Mrs Hudson a heart attack."

"If my return didn't do it, nothing would," Sherlock said, but he obediently turned and began climbing the stairs. John followed, for once glad that he was on the shorter side because it meant he was level with Sherlock's arse. It was a fucking spectacular view. God that arse, the things that John wanted to do to it... he wanted to taste it, open Sherlock up slowly, he wanted to rub his cock all over until Sherlock was gagging for it, he wanted to... _touch_. 

Adorably, Sherlock tripped, missing a step when John's hands found a new home on his arse. He stumbled forward, one knee striking the third step from the top. His hands flew out automatically to stop his forward motion and he grunted, a soft sound as the breath was forced from his lungs. They stayed that way for a long, frozen minute. John couldn't take his eyes off of his prize. He flexed his fingers slowly, testing the supple flesh beneath. The muscles were springy and tight, covered with a thin layer of fat (likely the only fat to be found on Sherlock's body). It felt fantastic beneath his hands, and he couldn't help wondering what it would feel like naked. Couldn't wait to find out.

"Um, John," Sherlock said, and he sounded a little breathless.

"Yes?" John said casually.

"You're - nothing. Carry on."

John looked around. They were still on the stairs, but close to the top - and maybe Mrs Hudson wasn't home, she could have been out at the shops. He deeply regretted having to lift one of his hands away, but it was more than worthwhile when he reached around and easily unfastened Sherlock's belt buckle. Sherlock stilled, not helping but not moving away, and allowed John to unzip his trousers and pull them down around his hips. He wasn't wearing anything underneath, John realized. His throat felt painfully dry as he let go, allowing the trousers to slither down around Sherlock's knees. The pale arse staring back at him was a hundred times better than anything he could've imagined.

"Sherlock," he muttered.

"Yes, go on," Sherlock said hoarsely. "John."

Hearing his name spoken like that, deep and wild with the promise of what was going to come, made John a little crazy. There was so much he wanted to do that he honestly did not know where to begin. Putting his hands back on Sherlock's arse seemed like a good place to start, so he did. Sherlock shuddered and started to pant, and John liked that. He kneaded the flesh gently before spreading Sherlock wide to take a good look at what was in between. More pale skin with just a little bit of curly black hair, perfectly framing a dusky pink hole that winked at him. John's mouth watered, and he lightly pressed one of his thumbs right up against that spot, tucked up nicely, and then just breathed.

Sherlock was shaking. "John," he said, and then, "John" again.

"I know," John said. "Spread your legs a little more, yeah, like that. God, Sherlock." He slipped a hand between Sherlock's thighs, running light fingers over his perineum. Sherlock whined and pressed down and back. John's thumb pushed into him just a little and Sherlock froze. John exhaled for the both of them and kept reaching forward, skirting around the base of Sherlock's prick. 

"I want," Sherlock gasped, and John hadn't even done very much and he sounded utterly wrecked. 

"Do you know how many times I've thought about this?" John asked, eyes locked to the place where a part of him was just inside of Sherlock. Fuck, he was _inside_ of Sherlock. "You can't even begin to imagine. No seriously, you can't, I think you've starred in all of my wet dreams for the past two years, _Jesus_." And he pushed a little harder, let his thumb slide a little deeper, because he couldn't fuck Sherlock - not without lube, he wouldn't hurt Sherlock that way - but he could not resist this. He was not that strong of a man.

In lieu of a response, Sherlock whined again and dropped his head. He was still wearing his shoes and coat, now hiked up around his waist, and John realized that if Sherlock stood up, he wouldn't look any different from the back from the knees up, and the idea was so hot that he shivered. There was no way he would be able to wait until the two of them made it up the stairs. He had to have this now, and if it was the only time he got to have Sherlock Holmes that was fine, he could hate himself later for not having done it properly.

He shuffled up another step, knees aching in protest, and knelt behind Sherlock. The extra height put him level with Sherlock's arse. He pulled his hand away from Sherlock's erection - earning a muttered protest - and unzipped his trousers with one hand. His cock popped out, fully erect and throbbing, and he wanted so badly to slide right into Sherlock. Knew that the man would let him do it, too. But he had no interest in listening to Sherlock complain for the next three days because he wouldn't walk without it hurting, and saliva wouldn't cut it.

"Put your hand on your dick," he ordered, surprised by the way that his voice still sounded steady. Because he felt like he was falling apart. "I'm going to rub myself against you."

Sherlock moaned. "Yes, John, I want that." He braced himself with just the one hand and brought his other between his thighs. John rested his head against Sherlock's back and felt more than heard the moan that vibrated through him when Sherlock made contact. 

It was a little awkward, on the stairs, but John made do, sliding his knee between Sherlock's and pressing his shaft against the cleft of Sherlock's buttocks. His thumb was in the way, and he wasn't removing it, so he slid the head down and aimed it more between Sherlock's thighs. He pushed forward and then back, marvelling at the smooth slide of skin, and Sherlock whimpered. He wiggled, squirming backwards, and John's thumb popped in the rest of the way. 

"Oh god," Sherlock said, and then he ducked his head and the movement of his arm became much faster. "Find my prostate, John, I want you to touch it - oh fuck yes!"

John had never been so grateful for his medical school education, because it enabled him to find Sherlock's prostate on the first try. He teased the little nub mercilessly, watching the body beneath him quiver, waiting for the moment when he knew that Sherlock would be unable to hold back. He pressed hard, then soft, then swiped to the left, and knew the exact second that all of the muscles in Sherlock's body started to go tense. He was on the edge, and John wanted to see him fall over.

"Come on, baby, now," he said lowly, pressing close, hard, "come on, Sherlock."

With an almost soundless cry, Sherlock clenched all over. John swallowed hard at the feel of the hot muscles contracting around his thumb, and the thought of what that would be like around his cock was more than enough to make him come as well. He splattered Sherlock's arse and thighs and his own hand with come before he slumped forward, leaning heavily against him and the stairs. He was breathing hard and Sherlock was still shivering, little spasms that made John wish he'd got the chance to see what Sherlock's face looked like.

"Baby?" Sherlock said after a couple of minutes.

"I use pet names in bed," John said lazily, realizing that his thumb was still firmly pressed inside of Sherlock's hole. He twitched it experimentally and Sherlock groaned.

"You're never going to move your hand, are you," he said, and John grinned because Sherlock did not sound upset about that, just resigned.

"Nope," he said cheerfully, before adding after a moment of reflection, "but you could persuade me to replace it with another part of my body. If you're interested."

As it turned out Sherlock was plenty interested, and he let John know it by reaching around and dragging him into another kiss. "Oh no," he said finally, once John had almost forgotten what it was that they were talking about. His eyes were gleaming. "Next time, it's _my_ turn."


End file.
